


Anticipation

by beltainefaerie



Series: Opening Up [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dating, Fluff and Smut, Intercrural Sex, Multi, New Relationship, Polyamory, Vaginal Fisting, relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 09:17:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John begin dating. Jealousy is easier to deal with than one might suppose and Mary is supportive, appreciated and more enthusiastic than anyone expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work belongs to the Opening Up series. If you haven’t read Safe yet, please do. This piece will make much more sense.

As Mary kissed him goodbye on her way to her girl’s night, John felt like he could breathe again. “Have fun,” she had whispered in his ear, before bidding Sherlock goodnight. While the feeling was still tentative, he felt lighter than he had in weeks. _Hopeful?_

 

Sherlock suggested a little Thai restaurant they enjoyed, sensing that John was a bit too stunned to manage choosing. It wasn’t too far away and they elected to walk. The brisk night air felt good and they walked arm in arm, as they often had, in companionable silence. John smiled to himself a bit bemused that something could be at once so familiar and so new.

 

It felt like no time at all before they arrived and were ushered to their seats with the quiet enthusiasm reserved for regular customers. They had dinner together hundreds of times, in the time before, and many times here, but somehow the energy had shifted. They stole bites from each other’s plates in a friendly familiarity that one never had on first dates. And if John drank his wine a little quickly out of nerves, who could blame him. Conversation was as easy as ever, as they rehashed the most recent cases. Sherlock confirmed the latest gossip from the yard and John relayed anecdotes from the surgery. But when they both reached for the same stick of satay and their fingertips brushed, it felt electric.

 

In fact, it took a fair bit of restraint not to slide his chair closer, to bury his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, and pull him into a kiss. But that would be more than a bit not good, here and now. There needed to be a modicum of decorum. With John married and while Sherlock was a hero again, things were too settled. The paparazzi would do anything for a bit of gossip about now and one never noticed those bastards until it was too late. He’d rather not hand this to them on a platter before they even have the chance to see if it works.

 

“You are thinking far too much, John.” Sherlock said between bites of pad thai.

 

“Says the man who never stops,” John quipped, but his internal monologue faded out and he tried to simply enjoy.

 

By the time they were back at John’s flat, the urgency of fantasies had been once again been replaced with a bit of hesitance. Inside the door, they froze for just a moment, their gaze locked. Reticence was not in either of their natures, but Sherlock hadn’t been in a relationship in years. _Of course when it happened it was even more complicated and fraught than such things usually were._ For John’s part, not only had he never kissed a man, much as he wanted this, and he certainly hadn’t planned on kissing anyone but Mary again, having been wracked with guilt since that near miss.

 

One could never discern who had kissed whom, for in the same moment they acted, dispelling any fears and leaning in to one another. Soft lips parting, moving together with a passion born of years of things unsaid. Sherlock’s hand cupped John’s jaw, enjoying the slight rasp of stubble over his palm. John tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s curls as he had been longing to, his tongue parting Sherlock’s lips, deepening their kiss.

 

At last they broke apart. “I had a wonderful time, Sherlock.” John said.

 

“As did I. And I think if I am to stay in Mary’s good graces, I ought to be going. I‘m not sure I trust myself.” he said before kissing John one more time. “Goodnight.”

 

“Goodnight.”

 

John lay awake until Mary got home, slipping under the covers and curling in behind him. “Good night?” she whispered.  

 

“Very good night. You?”

 

“MmHmm, sleepy now, though” she murmured into his shoulder. “Love you”.

 

“I love you, too, Mary.” She was really fine with this. John breathed a contented sigh and slept more soundly than he had in months.


	2. Chapter 2

Later that week, they went to see the new Bond film all together, John seated between Mary and Sherlock.  John thought it might be awkward, but Sherlock and Mary seemed perfectly comfortable with one another and he spent most of the film holding hands, his fingers twined with theirs in the comfortable darkness of the theatre.

 

 

Sherlock tried his best to keep his deductions to himself.  When he got bored of the show itself, he watched John’s reactions to it, which he found preferable by far.

 

 

They went out for dessert, and while discussing the film, Sherlock grudgingly admitted that it had been fun, even if the plot was implausible. At the end of the evening, Mary actually hugged him goodnight, which he found he didn’t mind, and after assessing that no one else cared for any, she left them in the living room, bustling into the kitchen to make herself tea.

 

When she disappeared, John pulled Sherlock down into a soft, sensual goodnight kiss that made Sherlock very much wish he did not have to go home.

 

\---

 

After that, as things turned out, there was another case which kept Sherlock so busy for days that when it was finally over, he crashed and actually slept for nearly a whole day. Finally he had time to make it to the surgery, specifically not the one where John worked, to get tested. So it was that by Friday, when they had scheduled their next date, his results hadn’t arrived, which did put a damper on what Sherlock was hoping his evening might entail.  However, the rest should still be brilliant.

 

As John arrived home from the surgery, he found Sherlock standing on the stoop, dressed in a gorgeous suit of a grey so deep it was nearly black, clutching a small hand-tied bouquet of blush roses.

 

He knew they were having a date tonight, but Sherlock had adamantly refused to tell him where and apparently he was also early. And he brought flowers?

 

Taking in John’s perplexed expression, Sherlock held up the bouquet, smiling. “For Mary. I thought she should have something lovely too since she is letting me borrow something precious.”

 

“That’s, sweet,” John said, as though not totally sure what to do with a sweet Sherlock Holmes. “I thought we were meeting at half 8,” John remarked, glancing at his watch, noting that it was in fact just before seven, but he seemed perfectly cheerful about it as he unlocked the door and ushered Sherlock in.

 

“We’re going out tonight and I knew you might want a bit more time to get ready than you’d plan on if it was just dinner,“ he said as he brandished tickets to see a renown concert violinist Philippe Quint.

 

Sherlock’s explanation of the evening tumbled out in the same gleeful rapid fire as his deductions, “You’ve often found it soothing to listen to me play, especially when you haven’t been feeling well, which you haven’t really since walking home in the rain, but you do still feel well enough to go out. And, well, I thought you would enjoy it. I would have gone anyway, but I thought I would prefer it with you.”

 

“That’s, that’s actually thoughtful. I am feeling better today, thanks. I’ll just change, then, shall I?” Relief flooded through him that John seemed truly touched.

 

John strode off to the bedroom and Sherlock figured out where Mary kept her vases, and made sure the bouquet had water. He drew a small card out of an inner jacket pocket and propped it in front of the vase.

 

Sherlock sprawled on the couch, saying, “If you hurry we could catch a light supper beforehand,” knowing full well that he had made reservations. Why am I being hesitant? Nervous about putting forth the effort? Still tentative about starting a relationship at all or actually worried that John will say hang this and scarper back into his snug, normal marriage? Yes, all of that, he decided with a sigh.

 

John reemerged clean shaven, in a lovely suit of rich, cool grey striped with deeper grey, the white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar.

 

“Will this do?” John asked.

 

Sherlock gasped before recovering himself. “Stunning,” he said, unable to keep the absolute awe out of his voice. It was cut to fit John beautifully and if he could have remotely afforded it, Sherlock would have sworn it was bespoke.

 

John smiled as he walked toward Sherlock. Mentions of his brother rarely had a joyous effect on Sherlock, so he decided to save the knowledge that this suit was how Mycroft had apologised for his part in the deception of Sherlock’s time away. John hadn’t had occasion to wear it yet, but just from the fittings, he knew it was perfect. He loved the way it felt, but it was even more gratifying to see Sherlock’s reaction to it and he was glad he had selected it tonight. Besides which, it was always pleasing to shock him.

 

Sherlock had made reservations at an elegant restaurant John had never heard of, where the chef, Jacques Boucher, actually came out to greet Sherlock, embracing him and kissing both cheeks.“When I saw you were finally coming, I prepared a special menu. You never eat enough, but you always would for me! So no protests. I insist!” John raised his eyebrows at that little exchange, the intimacy unnerving as it was confounding, but he had no time to dwell on it, as he found himself being drawn into the same effusive embrace.

 

“And John Watson!” Jacques exclaimed. “How delightful that he brought you! Will we be reading more harrowing tales soon?” he asked, adding in an undertone, “You aren’t on a case here, are you?”

 

“Not tonight, no. And, yes, I think I’ll be back to updating the blog soon,” John chuckled

With some subtle signal from the maître d', Jacques announced, “Sadly, I must get back, but please let me know how you like everything.” His hand lingered a hair too long on Sherlock’s shoulder, before he walked away.

 

When the chef had retreated to the kitchen and they were seated, John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.  “A light supper, you said? If there is time?”

 

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked almost flustered. “Yes, well, I didn’t want to rush you. The concert is actually not until 10, but I knew we could take our time here. And I thought you wouldn’t mind the surprise.” John laughed, shaking his head at this adorable man.

 

“No, it looks lovely, actually and I am rather hungry.”

 

“I didn’t expect Jacques would actually leave the kitchen to greet us, but I should have known he’d want to meet you.” But before John could enquire how they knew one another or what all that had been about, the starters arrived. They were each served a delicate scallop wrapped in prosciutto with a sliver of date and a dollop of some rich sauce John couldn’t quite place.

 

Next was a cup of Moules Mariniere, which Sherlock explained was not usually a soup. Traditionally, the dish consisted of mussels served in a cream sauce flavored with garlic, shallot, white wine, and of course, being French, a healthy bit of butter, but Jacques had interpreted this into an exquisite bisque. John thought of Mary’s love of seafood and thought with a slight twinge of guilt, how much she would enjoy this. But she wanted him to be happy and this was amazing. Perhaps they could come back here sometime, though he tried very hard not to think what that would cost.  

 

Next the main course arrived. Thinly sliced steak crusted with thyme, savory, rosemary and sage was fanned out on warmed plates, so the last bite was as perfectly heavenly as the first. The colorful trio of fingerling potatoes and delicate baby carrots rounded out the entrée.

 

John swore that watching Sherlock eat was like pornography. Perhaps it was the rarity that they were taking their time, and Sherlock’s glowing enjoyment in this meal. Perhaps it was the wine and the atmosphere, but mostly, John thought it was fact that he felt like he had permission to observe.  

 

John hardly noticed that he had stopped eating and was simply staring at Sherlock, who smiled at him, whispering, “John, staring like that, people will talk…”

 

His revery broken, John felt his cheeks warming slightly as he said, “Yes, well, a wise man once told me that they do little else.”

 

In the traditional French style, salad was served after, seasonal greens with orange sherry vinaigrette, served on chilled plates with a scattering of goat cheese, candied pecans, which contrasted nicely with the bacon and red onions. “This really is delicious. Where did you say you met him?”

 

“Really, John, you know I didn’t say. Subtlety is not your forte. But,” he paused and pitched his voice lower before continuing, “We met in less than ideal circumstances, through a purveyor of the recreational chemicals for which we had a mutual affection. While he was just starting out, but showing great promise, I was able to deduce that his boyfriend at the time was actually only interested in stealing his recipes. When I was proved right, he credited me with saving his career.  He was very,  grateful.”

 

“Oh, I am sure he was,” John said, knowing that in the circumstances, being jealous was at best ridiculous, but unable to stop his jaw from tightening slightly as images arose unbidden of Jacques feeding delicacies to Sherlock in bed.

 

“Come now, John.” Sherlock said with with a playful smile, as though reading his mind, "Perhaps you ought to be grateful to him. He got me to eat just enough that it probably saved my life at the time. Will ‘Three Continents’ Watson honestly begrudge me a youthful tryst?” Sherlock took his hand under the table. “I’d say he and I have transformed ourselves and our circumstances rather spectacularly since then.”

 

John allowed the momentary jealousy to fade away, squeezing Sherlock’s hand as the waiter brought out a wedge of brie, presented with a slice of luscious, ripe melon and a mélange of sugared berries. The moment diffused as they savored their fruit and cheese and conversation lightened.

 

For dessert they were each brought something different, a lavender infused vanilla crème brûlée for Sherlock and a velvety dark chocolate mousse for John.

 

At the first bite, John closed his eyes and let out a muffled sort of moan.“I take it back. I will excuse anything if he made you this,” John laughed. “Seriously, you have to try it!” he said, proffering a spoonful of rich chocolate mousse, topping with a bit a whipped cream. As John pulled his spoon back, he was mesmerized by Sherlock’s tongue darting out to catch a delicate bit of whipped cream that lingered at the edge of his lips.

 

“The vanilla in the whipped cream is a nice touch, ” he said before tapping the perfectly caramelized sugar atop his own confection with the side a spoon, shattering it’s translucent surface to delve into the rich cream below. “He finally perfected that,” Sherlock intoned after tasting it, offering a bite to John.  

 

They both sent their complements on the Jacques. Instead of a check, Sherlock received a small handwritten note. You finally look happy. It is payment enough. Come back any time. -Jacques

 

As if dinner weren’t enough, when they arrived at the Royal Albert Theatre, John discovered that Sherlock had not only gotten tickets, but box seats. John may not have the technical knowledge to determine why Quint was an excellent musician, but he could certainly appreciate the music.

 

On the cab ride back, they discussed the beauty and the passion of the pieces. Sherlock was particularly impressed that he had coaxed a consistently warm, lush tone from the instrument throughout the concert. In fact he went on at such length John eventually quipped, “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather bring him home?” Sherlock shut his mouth and looked sharply up, but there was no reproach or jealousy in John’s gaze, only quiet amusement, as he lay his hand on Sherlock’s thigh.

 

“It has been a lovely evening,” John added just as they arrived at 221 Baker Street.

 

“Would you care to come in? I haven’t gotten results back, but I…” Sherlock trailed off. I just don’t want this night to end, he thought, but it felt too twee to actually speak aloud. Perfect. Brilliant. Not awkward at all, he chastised himself.

 

“I’d love to,” John laughed with a twinkle in his eye,“I’m sure we can find plenty of things to be done regardless.”

 

After paying the cabbie, Sherlock practically bounded up the stairs, with John right behind.


	3. Chapter 3

They toed off shoes and hung up their jackets as they usually did when entering the flat. God, for all the romance and delight of this evening, there had not been nearly enough touching. Suddenly, there couldn’t be enough. Sherlock bent down as they pressed against one another, cocks brushing through fine trousers. John kissed along Sherlock’s jaw, their hands working over buttons and slipping under shirttails as they caressed each other at a near frenzied pace. John moved his hand to Sherlock’s zip as they crushed their lips together and Sherlock followed suit. John shivered as Sherlock’s hands ghosted over his scars, the flesh still oversensitive even years later.

 

He steered Sherlock to the couch, breaking off their kiss to turn him around, kissing his back as he positioned him kneeling on the cushions.

 

“John?” Sherlock said, the smallest edge of apprehension creeping into his voice, as John bent over him, hard cock nestling between Sherlock’s thighs.

 

“Trust me.” John said in a tone that brooked no argument.

 

“Oh”, Sherlock breathed as he realized what John was doing. Feeling John’s cock begin to slide between his thighs, brushing against his sensitive sac was intense, delightful and almost maddening. He wanted to dip his hips, to do whatever he could to take John in, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen tonight.

 

John licked a stripe up the palm of his hand and reached around to grasp Sherlock’s hard cock. His fingers drawing down the foreskin and working over the head, smoothing around the droplets of precome to add to the slickness, before giving Sherlock a long languid pull. Soon he matched the pace of his thrusts and the motions of his hand until Sherlock was dizzy with sensation.

 

As John’s thrusts became more erratic, Sherlock stuttered out a startled cry, the exact syllables of which may have been lost as he pressed his face into the couch, but buried in the muffled sounds, John heard his name and Sherlock’s come, coated his hand. As Sherlock stilled beneath him, John stiffened, and with a groan, came himself, thick white jets of come running down Sherlock’s thighs.

 

He stroked his clean hand down Sherlock’s spine, as his breath came in ragged pants.

 

Untangling himself, he went to wash up, bringing back a damp flannel to wipe Sherlock down.  

 

“That was,” Sherlock paused, seeming at a loss for words.

 

“Brilliant?” John supplied

 

“Yes, actually,” Sherlock said, pulling John down onto the couch beside him. It was already late, but it was another hour before John managed to tear himself away, Sherlock, actually asleep beside him.  He tucked a blanket around him and headed home, wishing he didn’t need to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to the Tiger's Tumblr movie night/chat group, without whom I wouldn't have been inspired to write this scene.


	4. Chapter 4

Mary brought John tea  and toast in bed, curling in beside him, for their usual lovely, lazy Saturday. “You got in late,” she said with a smile. “How was your night?”

“How much do you want to know?” John asked.   _God, how does one navigate this?_

“Anything you want to tell me, love.”

He began to share about his night, awkwardly at first, but growing in comfort, almost like any time he’d chat with his mates about a date.  But with some added layer. She knew about romantic dates with him, she knew all the subtle nuances he wasn’t sharing, could picture his little habits as only a lover can, as he shared about dinner, the unexpected jealousy over Jacques, the amazing concert.

When John finished, he drew the strength to look into her eyes. She was happy.  Flushed, actually.  Setting aside the breakfast dishes, she straddled his lap, asking, “And afterwards?”

They could see as they gazed into each other’s eyes, that neither of them were expecting this. Well, jealousy seemed not to be the issue here.  In fact, he told her everything else about his night with Sherlock, between kisses that left them breathless. He flipped her over, sliding down ready to undress her, when he noticed a little wet patch soaking through her teal satin knickers. God, she was that wet. He licked her through them for a moment, enjoying the way she squirmed. Her hands hooked the waistband and she lifted her hips, drawing them down her thighs.

He wanted to slide into her, but prepared himself for a bit of patience.  He wanted to taste her first.  And he did, licking and sucking as she moaned deliciously.

It was intended as foreplay when he slid two fingers into her, curling forward to stroke her most sensitive spots inside. He let his thumb lightly stroke her clit and she arched up, pushing against him, her whole body reaching for more. Before long, he slid a third finger in beside the first two, pausing in his motions so she could get used to the new stretch. The clench and flutter of her inner walls against his fingers, the slick heat of her closing around him felt somehow more intimate than traditional sex.

She was gloriously wet and bucking up against his fingers. The only words intelligible among her soft murmurs were “please” and “more,” when he felt her open.  He twisted his hand just so and was amazed when he was able to push further, tucking his thumb under. He watched in awe as his hand slid into her. He knew people did this, but he never had and it was stunning.  He could feel her heartbeat around his hand before she clamped down hard around his wrist. The smallest movements, the merest twitch of his fingers were enough now to set off a new set of moans.

“Oh, God, John,” she breathed. He bent down and licked her clit and she was coming around his hand. He rocked with her gently until she lay spent and quiet. When he could feel her relax, he started to withdraw, slowly. Careful not to damage her.

“Amazing. You are absolutely amazing,” he said reverently as he kissed her hip. She hummed appreciatively as he lay beside her. For some time they lay curled together, before Mary roused herself, suggesting, “Shower?”

“Perfect”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note and PSA: Generally with fisting, as with anal, you need plenty of lube. This fic doesn’t describe that, because it was based on my actual experience one night, where my girlfriend was just this ready. It was glorious as I have hopefully conveyed with John and Mary. It is magical when it happens on it’s own, but seriously, do not force this! Fanfic is not a how-to guide. Go slow and gently with fisting or someone will get hurt. 
> 
> Thanks as always to my delightful beta, mistresskikkisshiphassailed, who I adore! I couldn't do this without her!


End file.
